The last time a pinky was almost severed off, one was living off- the- grid in a rainforest. A nanny for a culturally blended escort on hide out from a former stalker. Walls thin enough allowing for afterhour bedtime stories. Free rent can allure even the mightiest of minions at times. Power was off more than on, and there was definitely no toilet paper. A small Indian jug rest window seal. Candlesticks in the vast majority. Fire escape routes unmarked. Kindling maximum amongst exquisite forest silence; adjoining sister screams.
Plan A of hospital was not actually a plan, although a false space for its demeanor was allocated. Pretend like. Just like the pretend real rats in her room. It would take more than a lost pinkie to jig-saw any relevance to petrol petty of that accord. Plan B was super glue. It wasn’t the plan she had expected, nor hoped for, and to be honest scared her a little. Yet, the tick that found its way forrid earlier in the morning scared her more. And given a momentary comparison; super glue somehow condoned itself a tick- of- approval.
‘my friend, had such an open wound once, we had to super glue it, worked a treat, trust me’
With no reply from the wounded, a forward gesture of hand signaled –go for it. Of course the wound was cleaned first. And before one could say SUPER GLUE, it was super glued shut. It almost didn’t feel like her pinky. No pain aurora around the dangling flesh. An overexcited Halloween patron; costume ready a year in advance.
‘I just hope it doesn’t get infected, being superglued shut and all?’
‘it will be fine, trust me, we do this all the time’
Part of her being wanted to walk away, loose it in laughter at the fact that they do this type of thing all the time, when clearly they do not, and, another part of her being wanted dive hammock bound, twisting herself ball via suffocate. Doing neither of those; a match was stroked, gas flicked on, kettle lifted & swirled to gauge water level. Making that delicious water on metal boing with a long g sound. Boingggg. Resonate. All with the good hand, of course. Mostly gladdened by the fact she didn’t have to fetch water and pass the children that would ask her 21 questions in 3 seconds. Or play beauty. Stories of queen past lives, losing one third of hair with amateur, inexperienced brushers’. The kettle took its time warming; window modestly displaying segments of overgrowth. The smell of rainforest; a moist nose hug. Feathered husband seemed inquisitive, yet settled in his fourth home attempt within three months. Hopefully none of those berries are poisonous.
Time felt infinite; laptop banished to doghouse with no power food. Being out here was incredibly isolating, in the most nurturing of ways. It was divine; as will, denying time. And before the kettle could sing; pinkie exploded from an accumulation of blood under glue. Plan C-andlewax. Only time could swell.